Born to be Blue
by Belladonna Lee
Summary: Implied DMHP. Two years after the war, Draco reunites with Harry in an evening party. Political manoeuvring might be Draco's forte, but when it comes to a certain pair of green eyes, he knew he could never win. Revised plus alternate take.
1. Take 1

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The song _Born to be Blue _belongs to Mel Torme and Robert Wells.

A/N Edited: First of all, I owe everyone an apology. This is written during a time of mourning, and that's why it is not as polished as some of my other fics. So I've revised this one, as well as putting up an alternate take of what the story was originally like. Yes, I know Draco's birthday has passed as I'm typing this, but still, this remains to be a fic to celebrate his birthday.

**Born to be Blue**

Fairy light was floating in the air; rose vines were clinging to white pillars; and white-clothed long tables were filled with food and drinks. Hidden from view, a large gramophone was playing beautiful classics that lent an air of old-time charm to this warm summer evening. Beneath the indigo sky, people were laughing and drinking and dancing in glee.

Had it been two years ago, no one would think of holding a party to celebrate the arrival of summer.

Two years had passed since the war ended with the final demise of Voldemort. The healing process was surprisingly swift, as if the wizarding world had jumped at the first chance to cast aside the shadows that had been looming over it for a long, long time. Witches and wizards alike had fully embraced this newly discovered freedom, and few people ever looked back.

Yet, underneath the overt cheerfulness the guests were displaying, there laid a faint sense of sorrow. Many people were lost in the war, both the deserving and the undeserving. This evening party was as much a celebration as a commemoration; and Draco Malfoy was feeling increasingly out of place in this intimate gathering that, in all honesty, he did not wholly belong to.

Granted, he had attended his fair share of dinner parties, both formal and informal. How many times had he crossed swords with ambitious politicians and shrewd businessmen in banquet halls? Hypocrisy was the main course, and veiled mockery the dessert. Those were the battles Draco had come to be very skilled at engaging in; and he would be lying to say he did not relish in these duels of wit and power.

Yet, the guests in attendance at this particular evening party were not of the political variety. Rather, they were fighters who had been to the blood-soaked battlefield, who had seen firsthand the horror darkness unleashed, and whom Draco had once allied with to overthrow the former Dark Lord Voldemort.

It had been a bold move to make, though Draco suspected his mind had not been thinking too clearly at the time. The shock of learning about his parents' death -- his mother murdered by Death Eaters and his father died while serving Voldemort -- had prompted him to act more rashly than he ought to. All he had thought about was revenge, plain and simple.

He could never truly call these people his allies, however. Distrust and tension had always persisted between him and the Order of the Phoenix; even their so-called alliance had been strained at best. If Ginevra Weasley had not invited him to this party, he would not have come at all.

As his eyes followed the slender figure in azure blue dancing with one of their former schoolmates, Draco could feel a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. Many had been surprised by the peculiar bond that he and Ginevra -- she would always be Ginevra to him -- had established during the war, a bond that lasted even to this day. To the persons in question, however, it was only natural that they became close acquaintances. After all, they were both drawn to the same pair of green eyes...

"Never thought I would see you here." The baritone voice that Draco knew well was sounding mildly amused. Normally his keen senses would alert him of any approaching intruders, but there was always one certain someone who could sneak past his defence.

Sending a sidelong glance at the person in question, Draco said evenly, "I have no desire to elicit the wrath of the fiery Lady Ginevra."

Harry Potter smiled a lopsided smile, a smile that contained neither enmity nor bitterness towards Draco's mentioning of his former sweetheart. To the confusion of some, Harry and Ginevra had gone on their separate ways after the war. "I don't want to merely survive the war; I want to begin anew with a clean slate." Those were the words Ginevra had confided in Draco, although he suspected there was more to it than that.

"Yes, Ginny can be very scary when she's upset." Harry was also watching her gliding elegantly across the dance platform with her partner; Draco wondered what those green eyes were really seeing. "Are you two... oh, never mind."

Draco did not need to be a seer to know what Harry was about to say; too many people had mistaken the acquaintanceship between him and Ginevra for something more. Silently Draco stole a glance at Harry: the same dark messy hair and jaded green eyes; the same pair of old-fashioned glasses framing his hardened face; and the same black clothes enveloping his lithe figure.

Two years had flown by, and Harry was still wearing the colour of mourning. Then again, Draco supposed he was not one to talk, for he was still wearing the same signet ring his father gave him for his eleventh birthday, even though Draco had inherited his father's signet ring when he passed on. It was rather pathetic that neither of them seemed able to let go of the past that had since become nothing more than distant memories.

In that regard, Ginevra was perhaps stronger than either of them. Then again, it would be folly to claim she had forgotten her past. Even now, the death of her brother, Ronald, had been hanging over her like a dark shadow.

"I heard you've passed the Auror examination," Draco said as he stared into the distant horizon. "I suppose I should congratulate you."

"News sure travels fast in the Ministry, doesn't it?" Harry replied, chuckling dryly. "I just got the confirmation this morning."

"It is my business to know what's going on in the Ministry," Draco remarked while studying Harry's reaction; Harry merely raised a curious eyebrow. Draco thought it best to change the subject. "I see Granger isn't here." The famous Gryffindor trio had been inseparable for the longest time; it was almost pitiful to see that Harry was the only one in attendance.

There was a hint of melancholy in those dark green pupils of Harry's. "She's in Moscow on an assignment, so she couldn't make it. But she should be back next week."

Draco was not fooled into thinking that this was the only reason Hermione Granger, now a reporter for the Lumos Monthly, did not attend the party; and it appeared that Harry had realised it as well. As Draco had come to learn in the past two years, memories could be a sadistic beast.

"You still haven't told me, you know," Harry said suddenly as he regarded Draco. His expression was one of strange pensiveness, his hard eyes boring into Draco's.

"Told you what?" Draco asked quietly, although he had an inkling as to what it was about.

"Why did you save me?" It seemed Harry had not forgotten about that particular incident, and neither had he lost his penchant for asking difficult questions.

It had not been a calculated move on Draco's part to shield Harry from the attack of the Death Eaters that time when they were ambushed, but it had not been an act stemmed from rash impulse either. Rather, it had simply been one of those crystallised moments when his mind and his heart agreed on what actions to undertake. It had been one of those rare moments when Draco knew exactly what he was doing.

No matter how well Draco had mastered his skills in diplomacy and manipulation, no matter how countless hard-boiled politicians regarded him with both wariness and respect, he knew that when it comes to a certain pair of green eyes, he would always lose this battle.

"I did what I had to do, that's all," was all Draco said before he turned on his heels, not bothering to wait for Harry's reply. "Give my thanks to Ginevra for me."

Fairy light glowed softly in the dimming twilight; the air was sweet with the intoxicating fragrance of roses; and a hauntingly beautiful melody filled the night-veiled grounds. A cool breeze gently brushed against his cheek like a ghost of a kiss, bringing with it a sprinkle of wetness.

It was like a scene from a fairy tale, but he did not belong in a fairy tale; none of them belonged in a fairy tale. Happily-ever-after was not for people like them. It was a make-believe, nothing more.

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: I hope you find the revised version to be better than the one before. And if you are interested, go and read the alternate take of this story. The mood is much lighter, as well as more in keeping to my usual style. I might do a continuation (not sure which version) when Harry's birthday is around the corner, but I haven't decided yet, so don't take my word for it.


	2. Take 2

Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine. The song _La Vie en Rose_ is also not mine (I would have been quite rich by now had I composed this song).

A/N: This is an alternate take (and a much more mellow and romantic take) to _Born to be Blue_, although it is actually what I have originally planned to write before my RL intruded. This is written in memory of my grandmother, the best cook I've ever seen. You will notice that the mood is very different from the previous one.

**La Vie en Rose**

Candlelight glowing softly in the dimming twilight; rose vines clinging to white pillars; and the sickle moon steadily climbing across the indigo sky -- it was a scenery of poetic delight. Hidden from view, a gramophone was playing beautiful classics that lent an air of old-time charm to this warm summer evening. Upon the green meadow, people were laughing and drinking and dancing to their fullest desire.

Had it been two years ago, no one would think of holding a party to celebrate the arrival of summer.

Two years had passed since the war ended with the demise of Voldemort. The wizarding community was healing more swiftly than anyone would have imagined. Witches and wizards alike were fully embracing this new-found freedom, and few of them ever looked back.

Standing before one of the pillars was Draco Malfoy, who was absently watching the crowd enjoying this simple yet charming party. A cool breeze gently brushed against his cheek like a ghost of a kiss, enticing him to surrender to its loving caress. One supposed Draco ought to follow the examples of his fellow guests, yet Draco merely felt out of place in this oddly intimate gathering.

Granted, he had attended his fair share of dinner parties, both formal and informal. How many times had he crossed metaphoric swords with ambitious politicians and shrewd businessmen in banquet halls? Bribery was the appetizer, hypocrisy the main course, veiled defamation the dessert. Those were the battles Draco had become especially adept at fighting; the blood-thirst in him would always relish in a satisfying slaughter or two.

However, the hosts and guests at this party were not key players of the cutthroat world that was politics and administration, and probably never would they become key players once more. Their fame belonged to another lifetime, one that had since become history recorded in soulless tomes.

And Draco had been one of them. Nevertheless, his only motive for allying with the Order of the Phoenix was to exact revenge against the Dark Lord for the death of his parents: his mother murdered by the Death Eaters and his father died for Voldemort's cause. Never could Draco truly call these witches and wizards of the light his allies; at best, their so-called alliance could only be described as strained.

If Ginevra Weasley had not invited him, he would not have come to this party at all.

As his eyes followed the slender figure in azure blue dancing with one of their former schoolmates, Draco could feel a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. The peculiar bond that he and Ginevra -- the rigid aristocrat in him insisted on the formality -- had established surprised many. Yet, to Draco, it was most natural that he and Ginevra became close acquaintances. After all, they were both drawn to the same pair of green eyes.

"Never thought I would see you here." The baritone voice that Draco knew well was sounding mildly amused. Normally his well-honed senses would alert him of approaching intruders, but there was always one certain someone who could elude his detection.

Sending a sidelong glance at the person in question, Draco said evenly, "I have no desire to elicit the wrath of the fiery Lady Ginevra."

Harry Potter smiled a lopsided smile, a smile without enmity or bitterness. He was no longer the scrawny boy with rebellious eyes that Draco had first laid eyes upon in Madam Malkin's, neither was Draco the arrogant brat who tried to get him expelled from school at every turn.

"Yes, Ginny can be very scary when she's upset." Harry was also watching her gliding elegantly across the dance platform with her partner; Draco wondered what those green eyes were really seeing.

It was to the bewilderment of many that Harry and Ginevra had gone on their separate ways after the war. Once, in a moment of weakness, Ginevra had confided in Draco. "I don't want to merely survive the war; I want to begin anew with a clean slate." Or so she claimed, but Draco suspected there was more to it than that.

In silence, Draco stole a glance at Harry: dark messy hair and jaded green eyes; a pair of old-fashioned glasses framed his hardened face; and black clothes enveloped his lithe figure.

How long had it been since Harry adopted the colour of mourning? But even as Draco mused to himself, he thought of the signet ring he was wearing. It was a gift from his father for his eleventh birthday; and he had not taken it off since, not even after he inherited his father's signet ring. However, it was nothing more than an empty gesture.

Fleetingly Draco wondered if he should be glad to know that there was at least one common thread tying him and Harry together: they were both holding onto the past like a ghost hanging desperately onto an imitation of life.

"I heard you've passed the Auror examination," Draco said as he stared into the distant horizon where pale clouds were hovering about. "I suppose a congratulation is in order."

"News sure travels fast in the Ministry, doesn't it?" Harry replied, chuckling dryly. "I just got the confirmation this morning."

"I like to know what's going on in the Ministry," Draco remarked while running a finger over the velvet rose petals. "After all, you cannot checkmate your opponent if you don't know the positions of their pieces."

Harry merely raised a curious eyebrow at Draco's comment. "Am I supposed to be one of the pieces, metaphorically speaking?"

"I haven't decided yet." With a slightly sardonic smile on his face, Draco replied. "It depends on which chessboard I'm looking at." Inwardly, Draco already knew. No matter how good he had become in the art of diplomacy and manipulation, when it comes to these vibrant green eyes that were currently staring at him, he would always lose.

"So, what kind of chess move was that when you jumped in front of me and got blasted by the Death Eaters?" Ah, it seemed Harry had not forgotten about that unfortunate incident, and it seemed he had lost none of his penchant for asking difficult questions either.

Would Harry believe him if he said it was neither a calculated move nor an act stemmed from the spur of the moment? It had been merely one of those crystallised moments when Draco acted upon the calling of his soul.

A sharp sting made Draco withdrew his hand; he had pricked his finger on the unforgiving thorn. If the rose blossom represents dreams, then its thorn is the harsh awakening. Draco was too much of a realist to believe anything would come of it; then again, it was his call.

Turning half-way towards Harry, Draco answered with a small smirk that conveyed far more than his words, "Suppose it's not a chess move at all? Suppose it's just something I wanted to do?"

Green eyes widened in surprise; but Draco did not give Harry the chance to reply. Turning on his heels, Draco left with only those words, "You can think of it however you may."

The air was sweet with the fragrance of roses; and an intoxicatingly beautiful melody filled the starless night. As Draco strolled towards his gracious hostess to say his farewell, he wondered why he felt oddly satisfied to lose this cryptic chess-play.

* * *

_Finis._

A/N: Thank you for those who've read _Born to be Blue. _Please tell me what you think about this alternate version.


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